2. Chapter 1 #2
Like, eerily empty.
“Hello?” My voice echoes.
A cleaning cart sits abandoned near a trash can. A single paper cup rolls across the floor, pushed by the AC vent.
"Where is everyone?" I check my phone. 8:40 AM. "Shouldn’t there be… people? Staff?"
I've arrived twenty minutes early because, of course I did. I’m Josie Whitfield. I once showed up to a job interview an hour early and sat in my car rehearsing answers until my voice went hoarse.
I’m about to pull up the email with the General Manager's office number when the entire building shakes.
A sound erupts from hidden speakers. A deep, primal, bone-rattling ROAR that vibrates through the soles of my feet and up my spine. I jump so high I nearly drop my phone, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“Jesus Christ!”
The roar echoes, fades, and is replaced by a cheerful male voice over the PA.
“Good morning, Beachside! Daily systems check complete. Have a bear-iffic day!”
I press a hand to my chest, laughing at myself. “Okay. Note to self: the mascot is loud. Got it.”
“Scares me every damn time.”
I whirl around at the sound of a voice.
A man is walking toward me. He’s maybe mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, but…
"Oh my god," I murmur to myself.
The man is wearing nothing but a pair of brightly patterned board shorts and a beach towel slung around his neck. Water droplets cling to his tanned shoulders and chest. He's treading barefoot, leaving wet footprints on the concrete.
He looks like he just walked out of the ocean and into a fucking bank heist.
“You must be Josie,” he says, offering a damp hand. “Colin Holden. General Manager of the Beachside Bears.”
I stare at his hand, then his bare chest. “You’ve been… surfing?”
“Dawn patrol. Best waves of the day.” He shrugs, like showing up to work half-naked and dripping is completely normal. “Didn’t think anyone would be here this early. Nobody usually rolls in until ten.”
“Ten?!” The word squeaks out of me. “But… It's hockey. Don’t you have… things to do?”
Colin chuckles, a dry, tired sound.
“You’d think.” He glances at his chunky waterproof watch. “Actually, since you're here early, come on. Let me show you around while nobody is about.”
He leads me down the concourse, still dripping wet and not giving a single fuck about it.
“This is the main area,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Food, merch, bathrooms. The usual.”
We pass a wide storefront, and I feel my inner marketer perk up like a dog spotting a squirrel. Two frosted glass doors bear the Bears' logo, but through clear panels I glimpse merchandise heaven.
A shrine to team spirit.
Jerseys hang like boutique garments… ocean-blue home, storm-gray alternate, sunset-orange specialty. A wall of snapback caps forms a meticulous rainbow of team colors.
And the hats. Fluffy pompom beanies, sleek curved-brim caps promising instant cool.
The sign above the doors glows golden: THE VAULT.
“Our team store,” Colin says, following my gaze.
I drag my eyes away from the window, but as I do, the main display catches my eyes. An enormous team poster is backlit, surrounded by team colors.
MEET THE BEARS! it declares in bold blue and gold letters.
And below the headline, among photos of players and coaching staff, is a photo of me.
A sudden, stupid wave of emotion tightens my throat. I blink fast. Do not cry in front of your semi-naked boss, Josie. Do NOT cry.
Colin gives me a sidelong look, then claps his hands together. “Right. Office time.”
He leads me through a keycard-access door marked STAFF ONLY, down a hallway lined with framed jerseys and action photos. We stop at a door at the end of the hall.
“This is you,” Colin says, swiping his card. The lock flashes with a green light and clicks.
He pushes the door open and steps aside as I walk in first.
And my jaw drops all over again.
Windows curve along two walls, with a panoramic view: ocean on one side, the arena’s ice and silent jumbotron on the other. The massive desk sits empty except for three precisely arranged items.
“This is…” I swallow. “This is mine?”
A brand-new MacBook Pro, still in its box, sits beside an iPhone in a custom Beachside Bears case. There's also a black folder, lying open to reveal a shiny silver credit card with my name embossed on the front, tucked into a slot labeled EXPENSE ACCOUNT.
“All yours.” Colin leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He's still dressed like he's at the beach, and now all I can think is don't drip on my office floor! “You’re going to need every tool we can give you.”
I walk slowly to the desk, my fingers trailing over the surface.
“Sit down,” Colin says. "Test it out."
I lower myself into the ergonomic chair. It sighs under my weight, molding to my still-aching body.
God, I could have used this chair for the past three days.
Colin pulls the other chair around to my side of the desk. He sits as water drips from his hair onto the rug, and I fight the urge to scream.
“I’m going to be straight with you, Josie,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “This team is on life support.”
The air in the beautiful office suddenly feels thin.
“The league is watching,” he continues. “If we don’t turn this ship around—attendance, media buzz, community engagement—they’re pulling the plug. The Beachside Bears will be a footnote in NHL history.”
My stomach plummets. “How bad is it?”
“We’re ten games in. We’ve won two.” He drags a hand down his face. “The Morrison brothers are the most talented players on this roster. Maybe the most talented we’ll ever get. We planned to put all our marketing dollars into the attraction of those three boys. But…”
He pauses, choosing his words.
“But maybe we made a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“They’re playing like this is a paid vacation.
” Colin’s voice is tight. “We’re giving them big bucks to perform, and they’re treating it like a summer share house with optional hockey.
Your number one priority is making this team marketable.
Make people care. Make people buy tickets.
Make people believe in the Beachside Bears. ”
The weight of it lands on my shoulders.
This isn’t a job. It’s a rescue mission.
“And if I can’t?”
Colin holds my gaze, and for the first time, I see the real exhaustion beneath the tan. “Then we’re all out of a job by Christmas. This building becomes a very expensive community center. And I go back to selling timeshares in Florida.”
A silence stretches between us.
My palms are sweating. My mind is screaming. Twenty-six years old. Secret from your family. One night stand with a stranger. And now you have to save a hockey franchise.
I look at the MacBook. The phone. The view of the ice.
No.
I straighten my spine, the movement sending a fresh twinge through my thighs. A reminder that I am good enough.
I have to be. For Dad.
“Okay,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “Where do we start?”
Colin checks his watch again and stands. “Well, leadership meeting should start in ten minutes. Mind you, we're usually running late."
No shit. Of course you are.
"I gotta go put on pants, so maybe meet me down the hall in Conference Room A.”